


Suptober Day 14: Fun and Games

by tiamatv



Series: Promptober 2020 [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Castiel Does Not Care About Gender Norms (Supernatural), Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Dean Winchester is Not Amused, Fluff and Humor, Genderswap, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Pre-Slash, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Sassy Rowena MacLeod
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27017977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: “Dean," Castiel says, patiently, "Human females have been dealing with being vertical bipeds with protruding mammary structures—”“Oh my God,” Dean groans. That’s even worse than ‘breasts.’“—for millennia. I’m sure we can deal with having them for a day or two,” Cas continues, as if Dean didn’t say anything at all.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Promptober 2020 [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954990
Comments: 35
Kudos: 184





	Suptober Day 14: Fun and Games

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FriendofCarlotta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/gifts).



> So... I don't know why this particular plotbunny hopped up today when it would have been better for yesterday, but such is the nature of the Muse, I guess! It's completely unrelated to my other genderswap fic. This is just silliness. More silliness. Please do not actually expect plot.
> 
> [FriendofCarlotta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta), this one is for you, and I hope when you read it, you'll know why. ;)

“You’re being so dramatic, Dean,” Castiel sighs, reaching a delicate, slender hand across the table to poke Clue towards him. “You complain all the time about research, and now you’re exempt, and you are _unhappy_ about it.” Castiel’s eye roll looks even more spectacular, eyes even bigger now that Castiel’s wearing a body that’s definitely a _she,_ and those eyes are framed with completely ridiculous, thick dark lashes. He’s—she’s—he’s— _goddammit._ Cas’s already made it very clear what _they_ think of Dean being upset about this. “Stop sulking. Here, let’s play a game.”

Dean slumps lower in the chair and pushes the Clue back to him. First of all, he doesn’t want to play anything that involves murder, and second, it’s no fun with two people. “I don’t want to play a game.” He hears the high arch of his own voice and god-fucking-dammit if that doesn’t sound like whining. He coughs and takes it down to a lower register. Okay, that sounds even _weirder._ “I want a drink. And you cheat at Scrabble.”

“It’s not _my_ fault I know every human language and all the words you claim are real aren’t supported by the Scrabble dictionary,” Castiel answers, primly folding her hands in front of… her.

Okay, yeah. Her.

Dean always thought that the expression was “It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.” In their line of work, it probably wasn’t fun and games if anyone’s eyeballs were involved in the first place, but that’s beside the point.

So he really wants to know what the expression is when someone loses their _dick_.

Dean slumps lower in his chair, but that sends an annoying twinge through… not his lower back—he’s used to that hurting—but somewhere a little higher. What the heck? He straightens again and arches to pull his shoulder blades together in the back. It kind of helps. But when he lets his body relax, it starts pulling again. He can’t really get _comfortable_.

“My back hurts,” he complains, annoyed. He’s probably close to six inches shorter, none of his clothes fit, he _bit_ his _lip_ while he was eating because he’s not used to his lower lip being so full, and while his knee isn’t twinging him as much—probably because he’s not as heavy anymore—his back does _weird things_ now.

And he’s got hips. _Hips_. They bump things, like _table corners_. The bruises Dean has on them right now are not even remotely fun.

“Yes, I suspect it’s because your posture is terrible, and your musculature hasn’t adapted to support your large breasts,” Cas notes, picking through their mixed, random collection of board games and pulling out Stratego. (Yeah, Cas would, the nerd.) She extracts out the instruction booklet with interest and starts to read.

“What?” Dean yelps. Even though Cas is currently a _girl_ , he’s still—she’s still— _fucking pronouns, what the hell_ —very much Cas, and Dean has no idea how the fuck he feels about the Angel Castiel of _any gender_ commenting on his _large breasts_.

Sam makes a noise like a dying frog, and when Dean glances over to glare, Sam’s doing a textbook example of _terrible posture_ , hunched so low over the book his hair is falling over his cheeks and his nose is almost touching the paper.

Rowena laughs. “You _are_ quite well-endowed, dearie,” she informs him, her high, sweet voice this strange, chilling blend of kindness and pure evil.

On any other day— _any other day_ —Dean would consider that kind of a nice compliment. No, strike that. For sure he would. ‘Cause fuck, yeah, as a guy, he _is_.

(Even though, honestly, the idea of _Rowena_ going anywhere near his junk makes it want to shrivel up and crawl into his body in self-preservation. Junk he doesn’t even _have_ right now. Which just goes to show, Dean thinks, that he’s probably grown up a little.)

Cas glances up from the instruction manual, looking bored with them all already. “Dean, human females have been dealing with being vertical bipeds with protruding mammary structures—”

“Oh my God,” Dean groans. That’s even worse than ‘breasts.’

“—for millennia. I’m sure we can deal with having them for a day or two,” Cas continues, as if Dean didn’t say anything at all.

It’s one of those times where Cas could be being completely earnest, or really fucking sarcastic.

“Easy for you to say,” Dean spits back. “You’re flat.”

Cas blinks those even-bigger, even-bluer eyes at him blandly. She glances down at herself, then shrugs, and goes back to picking through the board games that she poured out of the box.

Shit. Now Dean’s not just being an asshole, he’s being a _bitch_.

Okay, the problem is, it isn’t… quite true. Cas, as a girl, won’t make it into Juggs anytime soon, but what she’s got up top is, well… perky.

And with the fact that Cas _immediately_ crawled herself out of the too-big suit jacket and pants that she was swimming in and into a bright yellow sundress that’d come out of one of the boxes in the storage rooms, it’s… obvious.

Like, _really_ obvious, with the old-fashioned heart-shaped neckline, and the straps that curve to fasten behind her neck rather than over her shoulders. A silky little white ribbon—a fucking _ribbon—_ is tied under her breasts in a small bow, and when Cas ran it through her fingers to tie it, she made a soft, pleased little noise that’s very similar to the noise that he makes when he licks a spoon of peanut butter. Dean had a dizzy, shaky moment of realizing that Cas might ask him to help the way he does with his tie, and that’d put his hands way, _way_ closer to—

“He’s just being a git, pretty,” Rowena tells Cas, reaching out and _almost_ patting her on the shoulder before she remembers and pulls her hand back, a teacup in one hand and a thin, crumbly book covered with leather snugged in the crook of her elbow—yet another one of the MoL ledgers. “Besides, it’s his own damned fault, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t it always?” Sam mutters.

“ _I’m_ the injured party here!” Dean protests.

“You are completely uninjured,” Cas sighs. “Also, _you_ are the one who fondled the statuette.”

Dean sinks down lower in his chair again, even if it does pull on his back and make his boobs weirdly press against the top of his belly, and mutters, “I didn’t _fondle_ it!” under his breath.

He just saw the little marble statue of a woman in the box of shit he was sorting—‘cause he _was_ going through storeroom number 41B subroom 3 like a good little Men of Letters Legacy Nerd the way he’d promised Sam he would the next time they had a day of breathing room—and picked it up. Then he rubbed the base to see if he could see the lettering on it.

It read _Tiresias._ Not that Dean had much chance to process _that_ before his ears popped and the world went wonky around him.

Yeah, Dean kind of ran out of there a _little_ freaked out. But they really didn’t think that Cas touching him on the forehead to try and figure out if it’s a curse or spell or what would have… this effect, though. Dean _felt_ the pop of air and briefly had the panicked, horrified thought that “Oh, fuck, I turned into a girl and exploded the angel.”

But Cas? Not freaked out at all when the impact cleared and Dean looked down to see… her. He— _she_ —just looked at where the trench coat was now dragging around her feet, and said, mildly, “Oh. It’s contagious. I see.”

Which is why neither of them are helping with the research, right now. They have _no idea_ how contagious it is, so he and Cas aren’t touching anything that Sam and Rowena are… and it’s really fucking annoying to realize just how _much_ stuff he and Sam actually have shared custody of.

Though as far as they can tell Sam hasn’t grown any tits that he’s admitting to (they can’t tell about his hair).

Dean didn’t _want_ to call Rowena at all… except Moosecapades over there was _already calling her_ , leaning against the wall for laughing so hard, by the time Cas happily carried a big armful of clothing out of storeroom 12C. ‘Tiresias’ meant something to Sam even if it didn’t mean anything to _Dean_. Or at least it had better, from the way Sam started laughing when Dean showed the statue to him. (Dean almost threw it at him for that.)

But Dean looks across the wooden stretch of table and says, “Sorry, buddy,” anyway. ‘Cause on the scale of ‘who fucked up’ this time, it wasn’t Cas.

Cas looks up at him over the sorted selection of piles of board games—they came out of the same storeroom as the clothes. He’s—she’s—already put the ones that are obviously missing pieces on the floor. Her smile is soft, though, and her mouth is pretty much what Dean thinks people are imagining when they think of rosebud lips. “I’m not bothered, Dean. I’m still me,” she says, and smooths a hand down the curve of her hip. “It’s a pity that American culture has abandoned skirts. I like them. And they’re very comfortable.”

The particular skirt Cas is wearing also accentuates her trim waist the same way the straps over her shoulder make her neck look long and sleek. Cas isn’t skinny, but she’s… _slender_ , the same way Cas is as a guy. With the same lean legs and goddamned bubble butt. The same one Dean swears that he’s only noticing because the big yellow flowers on that dress seem to fucking _converge_ there because of the way the fabric is… folded? Pleated? Is that the word?

(Okay, so what’s his excuse for having noticed when Cas is in the suit?)

They’re never letting Cas wear bright colors again. Once he’s gotten dicked up again, it’s back into those ugly oversized neutrals he’s always worn before.

“They are, yes! So nice to meet another connoisseur,” Rowena says, batting eyelids heavy with bright blue eyeliner and flicking out the hem of her shiny purple dress as she walks back and forth. “ _Some_ people are actually appreciative of the pleasures of femininity, Dean, my sweet.” She gives Cas a thoughtful once-over that makes the short hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand at alarmed attention. (Dean’s really glad his hair didn’t grow the way Cas’s did.) “’Tis a pity I don’t dare touch you, a wee smudge of eyeliner and you would break every heart in this state.”

Yeah, no, no-one’s touching Cas.

Cas cocks her head, and her shoulder-length waves of hair curl over one shoulder. “Thank you?” she says, sounding puzzled.

Still the same old Cas, though. Dean hides his smile and reaches for the box of Yahtzee, shaking it. The slopping sound he gets out of it makes him drop it in a hurry.

Still, though, Rowena’s not wrong. Cas looks… cute, like this. Heart-shaped face with the same dimple in her chin, small, sloped shoulders, trim arms, hair that can’t decide whether it wants to be straight or wavy and ends up sort of messy and in-between. Compact, but self-contained.

Like… _really_ fucking cute.

And for the life of him Dean can’t figure out why that’s a weird, uncomfortable thought. What’s wrong with looking? Dean likes to look at girls—apparently that’s true even when he is one—and Cas is _very_ much a girl right now, feminine as heck, and…

But… it’s… still Cas.

And it’s not like Dean hasn’t had the ‘really fucking cute’ thought when Cas isn’t, well… _female_. He’s apparently had it often enough that when he has it now, it doesn’t even feel _unusual_.

Okay, that, _that’s_ uncomfortable.

Dean hunches down further into his flannel—cuffs rolled up—and jeans—belted, and squeezing his hips uncomfortably but flapping around his calves—and tries crossing his arms. Okay, what? Why’s _that_ motion weirdly uneasy, too?! Dean stares, betrayed, down at his arms. They’re smaller, sure, but why’re they _pinching_ like that?!

Cas studies him with that infinite gaze and tips her head. “If you’re going to do that, cross your arms _under_ your breasts,” she advises. “Then you’re not wedging them uncomfortably.”

Dean doesn’t want to admit that Cas is right… but Cas is right, when Dean tries it. He pushes himself up, shoves his flannel higher up his elbows—again, he can’t make the sleeves stay up—and reaches across the table to pull half the pile of board games towards him. He grimaces as a box comes apart in his hands. “You know a lot about this,” he observes.

“I had a female vessel before. Clothes now are much less restrictive than bustles, and there is something to be said for a lower center of balance,” Cas answers, simply. She moves her hips a little—just for the pleasure, as far as Dean can tell, of feeling the skirt swish.

‘Cause Cas just rolls like that. Dean can’t help but smile.

Sam looks up from his safe distance at the end of the table. The pile of inventory ledgers next to him rises as tall as his _shoulder._ Fuck. “Is it because you’re a… wavelength? Bodies are all the same to you?” he asks, curious as ever.

Cas smiles, softly—and it’s no softer now than when he was a guy. “No,” he answers, with a quick shake of his head. “It’s been years since I was incorporeal. This is… I think of my vessel as mine, now. But this is just a different… experience? It’s nice, and even if it’s unintentional, I’m glad I get to have it. Why not? I have every confidence you’ll figure it out.”

She brushes the little dark wavelets back from around her face with a finger, and Dean’s eyes helplessly watch the sweep of it where it tucks behind her ear. Cas never did _that_ with his fingers in his hair…

Cas holds up Chinese checkers, and it distracts from the hand and the hair and… yeah. Dean momentarily perks up—he enjoys that game, and for some reason he could always beat Sammy at it—but it’s pretty clear when they open the box that it’s missing more than a few of its marbles.

Talk about a fucking metaphor.

Dean slumps. “I guess. It ain’t _me,_ though, and I feel so fucking useless,” Dean mutters.

When he looks up into the silence, there are three people looking at him.

Both of Cas’s eyebrows are up and there’s a sweet, soulful little crinkle between her eyebrows that Dean automatically wants to press away with his thumb. But Sam’s face is so full of judgment it should come with its own biblical book. There’s purple sparking around Rowena’s pupils.

“You know, Tiresias was made female for _seven years,_ ” Rowena tells Sam, without looking away from Dean, and the snap of her voice is like the branch breaking overhead in a dark, cold swamp. “Samuel, do you think if we leave him like this long enough, he’ll menstruate?”

 _Jesus fucking Christ_ in a _tiny canoe_. Dean’s not really afraid of a lot, these days. But at that? His blood chills so fast it feels like a ghost grabbed his hands.

“Oh. That seems like it could be unpleasant,” Cas says, and _she_ , at least, sounds genuinely sympathetic. “But I’m sure you’ll get used to it, everyone seems to eventually.”

Or not. So much for the fucking sympathy.

“What?” Dean blurts out. Okay, what the fuck just happened here?

“I dare you, Dean,” Sam answers, with a sharp little snap to his voice that says he’s probably not kidding, “I _dare_ you to say all that to Jody. Or Donna.” He laughs, and it’s mean. “Or _Mom_.”

“Say… what?” Dean’s just confused, now, what the fuck are they—

Oh. _Shit_.

“Wow,” Deans says, and this time, he sits up. He leans up, and puts his elbows across the table, straightening—huh, actually, that _does_ make his back feel better. But he’s too annoyed to really think too hard about that, now. “ _Sonofabitch,_ man.”

But Sam’s still looking at him hard, even though Rowena’s now looking more curious than anything. (That doesn’t make her any less dangerous.) Dean flicks his chin at Cas, who’s the only one looking thoughtful, not offended or pissed-off.

Dean laughs—and even in his higher voice, it’s not a nice sound. “I dunno about _you_ guys,” he growls, “I _wasn’t_ talking ‘bout being in a girl body. So why were you? I ain’t used to not being able to do jack-shit but sort board games ‘cause I’m _contagious_ , but I’m pretty damned sure I could still kick your ass, no matter _how_ big my tits are.” He narrows his eyes and flicks them to Rowena and Sam, one after another. “So what’s it say about _you two_ that _that’s_ where your mind went all of a sudden, huh?”

The silence in the Vault only gets broken by Cas saying, “Hm, oh,” softly, and opening a box of mahjong tiles.

“Oh, well, that’s alright, then, dearie!” Rowena says, brightly, as if she wasn’t just threatening Dean with _having a fucking time of the month_ , and goes back to reading.

Sam’s the one who’s still looking hard, though, and like he’s up for a fight. “You have to admit, you haven’t exactly… embraced your femininity, Dean.”

Okay, seriously? “What, you want me to put on lace and garters and a fuckin’ tube top? Still me, asshole,” Dean snorts, spreading his arms wide—denim, flannel, broad shoulders, big tits and all. “If I’d been _born_ a girl I wouldn’t be wearin’ lace, I’d be in leather.” And he’d be _rockin’_ it, too.

“Well, you are missing out,” Cas tells him. “Panties are lovely, they’re very soft. I may continue wearing them after.”

Then she _wiggles_.

Cas, as they know, has a real fucking gift for shooting the conversation fairy.

Dean’s brain fritzes. Blows out like the lights when Cas goes full on angel nova. That’s the only word available for what happens in that moment.

Okay, so… he’s been trying _really hard_ not to think about what Cas has on under that dress. ‘Cause with that waistline on that dress, it ain’t the grandpa boxers.

To be fair, at least Sam also looks like he’s just gotten cardiac shock-paddled off whatever pissed-off—ridiculously unnecessary—soapbox he was about to climb onto, too.

“Hear, hear,” Rowena chirps, laughing.

But when Dean looks up, Cas has the tiny smile on like he thinks he’s being funny, an invitation to laugh squeezing at the corners of his eyes.

“You,” Dean squeezes out, “are…”

The crinkles deepen. “Yes?”

Dean has no idea how to finish that sentence, ‘cause saying that Cas is a _fucking tease_ is completely weird and inappropriate even if right now it feels _true._ Dean grumbles, instead, “Well, none of that stuff in that wardrobe box of yours would fit me anyhow, I’m too tall. And I sure as hell ain’t gonna buy a new wardrobe if this…” he gestures up and down himself, “only lasts a day or two.”

Rowena smirks. “What if it isn’t just a day or two, Dean, dear?” she gestures at the ledgers—and there are _hundreds_ of them—spread out in front of her and Dean. “As I said… Tiresias was female for seven years.”

Dean grimaces.

“It will be alright,” Cas says, soothingly, and she reaches out across the table to lay her fingertips across Dean’s forearm. “You may have to purchase a brassiere, or I can assist you in lacing into a corset, if you’d like. It’s very elegant.”

Then she goes back to sorting through the board games.

“A…” and that’s where Sam looks like he might have swallowed his tongue. Which Dean understands, ‘cause he’s _choking_ on his.

“Dean might like the back support,” Cas says, like that is fucking that, then pulls out a cardboard box with a triumphant noise. “Oh! Would you like to play Battleship?”

“Read faster, Sammy,” Dean grits out, grimly.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Tiresias was a Greek oracle who was changed into a woman for seven years for having smacked a pair of copulating snakes with a stick. Hera wasn't pleased. 
> 
> (If your brain is going in crunchy directions, you're not wrong, since Greek mythology is pretty crunchy as a rule: one version of the story states that he was later struck blind because he told Zeus and Hera that women have ten times as much fun with sex as men do.)


End file.
